


Jaskier and Geralt do a thing and stuff happens

by Dracoroserade



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-13
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:47:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22696591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dracoroserade/pseuds/Dracoroserade
Summary: It's in the title
Kudos: 27





	1. Chapter 1

The fire crackled mercilessly and tentatively licked the soot-caked brickwork of the ancient fire-place, its tongues reaching into the most minute cracks but finding nothing, no escape from the metal grilling that cradled the scorched logs, the fuel, the sustenance for the fire. No matter how much it tugged upwards, pulling itself from the ground and seeking the sky, the inferno would never be free from the earthly tether binding it upon this mortal plane.   
“Gods, you look like someone desperately in need of a whore but who’s locked in a monastery. With monks. Are you not enjoying yourself?”  
Geralt pulled his gaze away from the inn fireplace, the slits of his pupils widening again as he turned away from the light. “You said this would be a quick stop.”   
Jaskier landed heavily in the seat beside him, the mead sloshing dangerously close to the rim of his tankard. Though he was drunkenly clumsy with his drink, Geralt couldn’t help noticing how carefully he put down his lute. “Well, you know,” he said, gesturing around to the joyous and loud frivolity of the packed inn, “When someone asks you for a song, it’s incredibly rude to refuse. In my craft that is.”   
Though the bard who would be Dandelion had paused his performance, a few other minstrels had taken up in his absence to attempt to show off their own musical accomplishments and woo the few remaining maids not already smitten with Geralt’s enthusiastic friend. Though the dancing and merriment was aplenty, there remained a cautious space left around the fireplace. Geralt didn’t mind their reluctance to approach him, in fact it rather amused him how it clashed with their desire to get closer to Jaskier.   
“Doesn’t matter. If we don’t reach Beauclair before the Nekker’s face rots, we don’t get paid and lose that bounty forever.”  
“Oh, pish,” Jaskier said. “If we leave now, we lose this party forever. And all the delights that come with it.” He turned to look over his shoulder, almost falling over in the process, and cheekily waved his fingers at one of the gigglier group of girls. Geralt didn’t need to hear their rapid heartbeats, nor did he want to, but it happened anyway.   
“You might lose them. All I’ve had is narrowed glances and watered-down ale.”   
“Nonsense, these people love you! Well,” Jaskier drunkenly backtracked, “Not love, perchance, but like? Accept? Tolerate?” He paused for a second. “Adore? No, that one’s not right.”  
“How you turn in to a mess after two drinks but perform better than sober men after three, I don’t know.”   
Geralt wasn’t overly concerned about the Nekker’s face rotting. True, it would be a waste to lose that contract, the lord’s nephew slain by a monster struck with peculiar and unique acne, but it made for a better excuse to leave the stares, either fearful or hateful, coming from all directions.  
“And, my friend, you never will. Now, Ladies!”   
Jaskier staggered to his feet and went to bow in the direction of the blushing women.  
Geralt quickly stood up. “Careful now,” he said, his hand grabbing Jaskier’s drink as it went to tip forward. “Tell you what. We’ll each have another drink and then I’ll leave. I’ll even pay.”  
“You’re buying my drinks?” Jaskier looked at him incredulously. “I don’t owe you money, do I?”  
Geralt shook his head.   
“Well then, I’m damned if I’m missing this!” Jaskier threw his head back and downed the mead. Most of the tankard vanished swiftly down his gullet and he shoved the vessel into Geralt’s chest. “I’ll have another of those, if you don’t mind!”   
Geralt watched as his friend sauntered off towards the gaggle of women, arms open, and he put the tankard down on the table next to him. Jaskier soon had his arms around the two most attractive women of the group and they were all laughing at whatever nonsense he was saying. A minute later and the bard was slowly kissing the woman in his left arm behind the ear, kissing downwards until he reached her neck and shoulder and then he was laying his head on her breast. The women seemed delighted and Dandelion’s chosen was looking particularly smug until it became clear that the bard wasn’t coming back up. She jostled him but then his legs crumpled, and the two women were suddenly supporting the full, albeit not immense, weight of Jaskier as he snored, ignorant of their protests.   
“There we go,” Geralt said quietly. “Ladies!” he announced, walking over. “It seems the bard doesn’t quite know how to handle his drink tonight. I’ll take him to his room, you’ll see him tomorrow, don’t you worry.” He reached around and seized Jaskier’s collar in a gloved hand, pulling him up and dropping the hand over his shoulder. Geralt nodded to the innkeeper as he hauled his friend, like a sack of potatoes, away from the disappointed women watching them go.

*

Jaskier’s delightful dream, in which he was being fed peeled grapes that were somehow also an A major chord, was knocked to and fro into the abyss and he was pulled back into the world of the living. His chest hurt, something both soft and pointed was shoving down onto him and it felt like the air was being beaten out of him. His vision came swimming back to him and suddenly it seemed he was actually face down and the ground was rushing away from him, or past him rather. At an alarming speed.   
“Erm, Geralt?”   
“You’re awake.”  
Geralt’s harsh tones came from somewhere behind Jaskier, or perhaps above, but there were other things on the bard’s mind. He’d just become aware of the horseshoes pounding away at the ground not that far from his face. The smell that wasn’t far away confirmed that they weren’t attached to the horse’s front legs.  
“Am I slung over Roach’s ass right now?”  
“You are.”  
“Excellent, just grand,” Jaskier sighed. “Pull me up, would you? My head is killing me.”   
It was true. Horseshoes weren’t the only thing pounding away and the noise of those certainly wasn’t helping. It felt like something, just at the top of his skull was attempting to make a door in it from the inside. Suddenly Jaskier’s collar was taught and he was hoisted upwards until he was upright and then let go. He had to squeeze his legs together to grip onto the horse and then he was looking at the broad back of one less-than-friendly witcher.   
The road they were travelling down was little more than a dirt track and overgrown trees threatened to rake their scalps with thin leafless branches. Barren fields could be seen through the trees on both sides, though beyond that was a mystery due to the mist. A mistery if you will.   
Jaskier blinked as he tried to recall how he’d come to be slung over the backside of a horse.   
“I’ll be honest, last night’s a little hazy,” he said. “I remember there being at least three women, naturally, but then…” He suddenly became aware of a burning in the back of his throat. “Urgh, what is that taste, I swear- Nerriseed.” Suddenly it became clear. “You drugged me again, didn’t you?!”  
“No.”  
Jaskier didn’t need witcher senses to hear the smirk in his voice. The bard punched the witcher lightly on the shoulder with a fist. “You’re a dick, Geralt, sometimes, an absolute dick.”  
Roach adjusted course slightly and something pointy jabbed Jaskier in the groin. He looked down and was alarmed to see a sword, sheathed thank gods, scarily close to something rather precious to him.   
“I’m not even in a saddle, you threw me on the saddlebags! Like I was luggage!” He threw his arms in the air. “I give up with you sometimes.”   
“Well you wouldn’t stay on your horse.”  
Jaskier had forgotten he’d had a horse. “What did you do with my horse, Geralt?”   
The witcher didn’t answer.   
“What,” Jaskier spoke more slowly, “Did you-”  
His indignant complaints were cut off as a scream pierced the air. It had come from somewhere to their right, through the trees.   
“Geralt, did you hear that?” Jaskier asked, but Geralt had already pulled on Roach’s reins and the horse was crashing through the bracken at the base of the trees.   
*


	2. Chapter 2

Roach’s hooves pounded into the dusty earth of the field as the horse, the bard, and the witcher sped over the ground. The mist seemed to be growing ever thicker and more than once Geralt had to yank on the reins to stop Roach stepping into a particularly deep rut in the ground. A second scream split the dawn air, though its origin still wasn’t clear. A hedge materialised in front of them, but Roach leapt it with ease, the horse’s hooves flying clear of the foliage and slamming back down to earth on the other side.   
The screaming came a third time, very clearly from their left. Geralt suddenly pulled back on the reins, Roach’s thunderous pace slowly coming to a stop. She began grazing on some of the sparse grass.   
Jaskier stared with alarm at his friend. “What are you doing? Keep moving, she’s in trouble.”  
“No.”   
“What do you mean no? Have you lost your senses? Save the people, that’s what you do Geralt, dammit!” He gave the witcher’s back a shove but it was like hitting a wall.   
Geralt paused. His right hand moved slowly down to beside his leg, where he’d attached his silver sword to Roach’s saddlebags. As he moved, he spoke almost too softly for his companion to hear. “Jaskier, each of those screams has been identical, the same from start to finish. No human screams like that.” From one of the saddle bags he pulled out a large dagger, almost as long as Jaskier’s forearm, and passed it behind him. Jaskier took it and eased it out of the sheath. The glint of silver was unmistakeable.   
“I do believe,” Geralt said, “This is a trap.”   
Jaskier almost fell as the witcher seized the reins and Roach spun back around to face where they’d come from. Only they turned to look into the dark, bulbous eyes of a Foglet, mere inches away from slashing at Roach’s neck. The horse reared up in fright, her hooves flailing wildly at the attacking creature, but Geralt slid from his saddle, his legs remaining tight around Roach’s body as he rolled around quickly enough to slash at the foglet’s claws and deflect the blow. The silver on claw rang across the field, which was the only part of this clash that Jaskier was aware of, being that he’d been thrown from the saddlebags the moment that Roach had reared.   
He hit the ground hard, the dry, icy morning dirt not the softest of landings. Although the wind was almost taken out of him, he had enough sense to scramble to his feet and away from the horseshoes of the panicked roach, now stamping the earth where his head had been.   
Jaskier groaned as he looked around. He could see at least three foglets, their skeletal yet fleshy frames mottled blue and grey, advancing on him, though it wasn’t exactly clear how many as they were joined by an assortment of mirage figures formed of the fog, their features equally repugnant though they were made of mist.   
Behind the bard, Geralt rolled to the ground and sprung to his feet in one swift movement. He smacked Roach on the rump with a loud “Hyah!” and the horse bolted away through a gap in the figures. Only a couple of foglets attempted to swipe at her – the rest were focused on the two surrounded humans in their grasp.  
“Get behind me, dammit,” Geralt snarled at him. Jaskier happily complied, moving to Geralt’s back as the witcher turned slowly to keep the foglets in view. “I count eleven of them. Plus their doubles.”  
“Eleven? What the hell? Can you see the person who screamed?”  
Geralt swiftly uncorked a vial from his pocket and downed the dark contents. “There was no person, foglets make illusions to lure in idiots.” Jaskier could hear the grimace in his voice. “Like us.”  
“Oh, naturally, foglets, illusions, of course, why wouldn’t they be magicians as well as beasts?”   
The foglets were getting closer now, beginning to advance less cautiously, though they definitely didn’t like the look of the silver. Jaskier wasn’t a fan of how they became less cautious the moment he was the one in front of them. It was something in their eyes.  
“At least this will make for a good ballad. Us against a hundred and thirty-two foglets, wouldn’t you say?”  
“As long as you live to sing it. I’ll try to cover you but use the dagger. They won’t like the silver.”  
Jaskier wasn’t a fool, he’d been holding the dagger in front of him since he landed. It was only at this point that he realised it was still in the leather sheath. He flicked open the clasp and flung the cover to the ground. Now the foglets were taking notice of him.  
“They’re about to attack. Move and stay low. Now!”  
Jaskier ducked down and jumped to the side as two of the foglets pounced on him. One’s claws stabbed the earth where he’d been stood and the other slashed the air in front of him, barely missing his tunic. The air was suddenly much louder, the foglets shrill screeching echoing off the surrounding mist. Jaskier moved, trying to stay close to Geralt, as the witcher’s sword swung through the air, carving into the monsters, their ungodly screaming growing louder with each blow. Blood, thankfully not human, spun through the air and more than a few times Jaskier felt the warm splashing hit the back of his head or wash the ground at his feet and steam into the air.   
“This is not how I expected – or wanted! – this morning to go, Geralt!”  
“Shut up, Jaskier!  
A gross foglet came at him, teeth gnashing in its skull. Jaskier waved the dagger in its face but it almost seemed to laugh at him. It sprang backwards on its gnarled heels and then jumped, up in the air and coming straight down at him.   
Jaskier wasn’t proud of what he considered the most effective move in a bard’s fighting arsenal. As the foglet lunged, he dropped down low to his haunches and then punched the dagger straight upwards. A swift punch from below the testicles, aiming to place them back inside a man’s body, was often enough to fell a bar-brawler, but this foglet didn’t appear to have bollocks and hence the inclusion of the silver dagger. The blade pierced the beast in the (groin? Skeletal pelvic area? Foglet love den?) and carried on upwards, Jaskier’s punch and the beasts own weight driving it through stomach, sternum, throat, and eventually lodging the silver spike deeply through the jaw and up into its brain. It gurgled and suddenly decided to stop holding its own weight, instead preferring Jaskier to. It didn’t weigh all that much but the sudden second body falling on Jaskier’s own took him by surprise and he began to topple backwards.   
“Geralt!” he shouted, beginning to panic.   
Two other foglets noticed his cry and descended on him. They barrelled into him from behind the foglet he was now cuddling and pushed him to the ground, the weight of three on top of him and two toothy rage-filled maws now crashing together inches away from his face. He tried blocking them with their friend’s face, still stuck onto the dagger in his hands, but with one each side it was a balancing act. He took to quickly knocking the dead foglet’s head back and forth between the two live ones as fast as he could. It sounded rather like a macabre xylophone with only two keys – oddly one foglet’s skull rang at an octave higher than the other’s.   
“Gera-” Jaskier cried out again but his shout was cut off as he felt a small pain across his midriff. The foglets suddenly stopped moving, their tongues lolling out of their mouths, and their bodies slid off of him. Or at least their legs did. Then their top halves. The first foglet, the one Jaskier had stabbed, whom he’d come to think of as a Tim, slid off him also, though his legs went to Jaskier’s right and top half moved off him to the left. And the bard was left sat in a pile of six halves of foglet.  
Then he noticed a thin cut across the stomach of his tunic, a clean severance of the material, and peeking through the gap, a very fine red line, horizontally across his tummy.   
Geralt leant down and grasped him by the hand, pulling him back to his feet. As he stood up, Jaskier yanked the dagger out of Tim’s skull, followed by a splurge of brain matter.   
“You know, that shows extraordinary skill with a sword,” Jaskier started. “To chop those three in half, without… you know, me. Only thing better would have been to attach a new button at the same time.”  
“Tell me later, we’re not done.”  
“Oh, for heaven’s…”  
Around them had amassed a group of foglets even larger than before; Jaskier was starting to think his estimate of a hundred and thirty-two might have even been modest. The beasts were even starting to jostle each other for a go at the two humans, surrounded by swathes of their dead brethren.   
“You might need to run in a second, Jaskier.”  
“What? You think you can take on that many by yourself?” Jaskier held Geralt in the highest regard when it came to monster slaying, but this was getting ridiculous.  
The witcher held out his right hand and swiftly made the sign of Quen, the shield. Forgoing the monsters, Geralt looked at Jaskier and grimly smiled at him. “No,” he said, pushing his hand into Jaskier’s chest.  
The shielding sign spread across the bard’s body instantaneously, the shooting waves of protecting magic flashing across his vision and almost warming his skin with its tingle.   
“Run, Jaskier!” Geralt said, giving him a shove.   
Jaskier stumbled at the push and watched as his friend turned and began to run at the largest group of foglets who in response advanced on him, a great wave of claws and teeth ready to crash down upon him. Jaskier swallowed and gave a swift nod. He turned to run, trying to remember the last image that he would likely see of Geralt of Rivia.   
Then a clear note, like glass struck by a thin, weightless shard of metal, but loud as if fallen from a great height, rang through his head. It seemed to come from the mists around them, as if from the very air.  
Jaskier turned back to see Geralt had stopped his charge, but so had the foglets. Each of the beasts had turned its head to the sky and was listening. Then, as one, they sifted away into fog and melted into the surrounding mist, like they’d never been there. The corpses on the ground melted into rainwater and soaked into the earth so dry it drank them greedily.   
“Um, Geralt? Do you…”  
The witcher didn’t answer him, instead looking around. He didn’t lower his sword.   
“I really must apologise.”  
Both of them whipped around at the voice. Suddenly, Jaskier was looking straight at a tall, beautiful woman walking out from the fog, eyes and hair both a shade of deep emerald green, a thin golden crown woven through the locks. She wore robes, like that of a priestess, though far more ornate than Jaskier had ever seen, and her skin seemed to glow so that she lit up the space. She wasn’t walking, so much as gliding towards them and she stopped when she had drawn near.   
Jaskier noticed Geralt raising his sword in her direction and he waved rapidly at him. Geralt stopped raising it but didn’t sheathe it either.   
“I understand your caution – I even recommend it,” the woman said. “But I really would like to talk to you both. Please come in.” She waved her hand in its long sleeve behind her and the fog which she’d walked through separated, a corridor opening in the gloom. Clean air filled the space and Jaskier could see all the way through to where the fog dissipated and a small, simple cottage sat in the sunlight.   
“Please follow me,” she said. She smiled, nodded, and then walked down through the corridor.   
Jaskier and Geralt shared a look. Jaskier shrugged, Geralt glared, Jaskier gestured, Geralt paused, Jaskier gestured again, Geralt sighed, sheathed his sword and walked towards the corridor through the fog. Jaskier smiled and followed, already thinking up the next few verses of “Three hundred foglets, the bard, the witcher, and the strange yet beautiful floating lady.” The title needed revising, perhaps.


End file.
